


A Tattered Coat

by InjaMorgan



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Old Dwalin, You'll love the OCs, lot's of introspection on Dwalin's side, old as baaaaalls, this story takes place in 91 Fo.A., very sad, you'll probably cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 11:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2148780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InjaMorgan/pseuds/InjaMorgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin is as old as the stone itself. Well ... at least he feels like that on some days. On other days, his joints don't creak as much and his back does not hurt at all, and when he sees the dwarflings at play in the Gem Caverns, he even forgets how tired he is of being the last one left...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tattered Coat

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from W. Butler Yeats "Sailing to Byzantium"
> 
> This all started with the image of an ancient Dwalin sitting in front of the fire. Over many months, it evolved into a pile of headcanons about dwarven life after the War of the Ring, and because it gets boring without it, I added a dash of Nwalin (because I can) and some other sad headcanons about the long years that Dwalin spent in Middle-earth.
> 
> I recommend the use of tissues. It's the 91st year of the Fourth Age, after all!

The walking stick made a hollow sound as Dwalin slowly made his way along the hall that would lead him back into the housing quarters. He had spent his day visiting the Gem Caverns and Gimli's offices, talking about old times and the plans that the Son of Gloin had for his own little colony in the Glittering Caves, and the hours had passed so quickly that by now the sun had set outside the mountain and it was time for him to return to his home.

Well, he called it home, but he sometimes still felt like an intruder. After slipping on some ice last winter and breaking his leg, walking had become painful, and stairs were nearly impossible now. The stick helped a little, but he was constrained to the upper levels, where thankfully Bofur's daughter and her family lived, and she had been willing to set up one of the rooms in her house as Dwalin's own little space. Of course Gimli had offered Dwalin to build a new little flat closer to the surface, but Dwalin … he was old, and also _felt_ old, and managing a whole household when on some days even getting out of his bed was a hard task seemed impossible.

So he had left the home that held so many memories of happier times, and also a very sad day in his life, and moved into the home of a very clever miner and his famous wife. Almost six decades ago now, Borla had enhanced her father's ideas, taking all those clockwork toys Bofur had built to a whole different level and had constructed a machine that could calculate, and she had managed to design really small clocks that could be carried everywhere and only needed to be rewound every second day. Borla's machines were popular in all of Middle-earth, but especially the Shire-folk loved her 'fob watches'. Osk, her husband, was well-known within his own people, as he had invented a new way to avoid mine cave-ins by supporting weak areas with a mixture of slaked lime, brick dust, ash, sand and water that dried when exposed to air and became as hard and solid as stone. The two of them made good money with their inventions, and yet both couldn't just sit back and enjoy their wealth, as a dwarf without work would be an unhappy dwarf. So Osk was still in the mines, and Borla still tried to refine her inventions, even though there was a whole part of the Glittering Caves that only build those tiny clocks. And now she took care of Dwalin too, although he really tried to be as unobtrusive as possible. He actually only accepted Borla's help with washing his clothes, and was happy every time he could sit down at the table and she put a plate with food in front of him, but he very well managed to keep his small room clean by himself, thank you very much. It hurt a little to bend down to pick something up, yet … ah, he managed. He was a warrior, dammit!

Dwalin couldn't stop himself and hit the stone beneath his feet a little harder with his walking stick, as the thought of him, a mighty warrior, being now so old that he needed _help_ when he wanted to reach for something on the ground was making him angry. However, the sound attracted the attention of a young dwarf that happened to walk past Dwalin in that moment.

“Master Dwalin!” he greeted him, and Dwalin stopped, looking at the speaker. He was indeed young, with no beard on the cheeks yet, and slightly familiar, but that was no surprise as most of Bombur's offspring had come to the Glittering Caves, and with them many a young dwarfling that all somehow looked similar.

“Master Dwalin, how are you? Back from the Gem Caverns, eh?” It was common knowledge that Dwalin tried to stay fit by walking the small distance from his current home to the Caverns and back every day, and although especially Gimli worried that something like last winter would happen again, Dwalin was too stubborn to give up his routine. He enjoyed his special sitting spot in the Caverns where he could simply observe the other dwarves, filling his day with stories of the simple problems of a dwarven colony and gossip of the happenings in Middle-earth, and wouldn't give it up even if he had to crawl there. Sitting all day in his room would bore him out of his mind, just like in the days when he had to lie in his bed so his leg could heal.

“Ah, my hip aches and the joints crack, but fine, fine,” Dwalin answered truthfully. “And the Caverns are as beautiful as ever. Did you hear that young Blyth gave birth to a little boy?”

“Yes, I heard about it. Trust old Dwalin to be the master of all the news in town!” The young dwarf laughed, and it reminded Dwalin very much of Bofur's happy giggle. It was moments like these that Dwalin missed his old friends the most.

“But it is great that you are well. Wouldn't do good for you to be sick during the festivities next week, eh?” The young dwarf patted Dwalin's shoulder, who was undeniably confused.

“What's next week?” Dwalin asked, raising an eyebrow at the dwarrow in front of him; by now he was pretty sure that it was the boy of Buraki Bomburson.

“No way!” There was a genuine expression of surprise on the young dwarf's face. “Don't tell me you forgot your own birthday!”

Oh. Dwalin looked down past his bushy white beard and at his feet. Had really so much time passed? There was his accident, close to the time of melting snow, and the months he spent in bed, then summer solstice when he was finally allowed to walk his first steps on unsteady feet … he had eventually moved into Borla's house some weeks before autumnal equinox, and New Year was shortly after. Yes, in the last weeks it had steadily gotten colder; winter had the mountain in its cold grip and winter solstice was probably close.

It was his birthday next week.

Dwalin returned from his own muddy thoughts to a still happily chattering dwarf next to him.

“...worry, it's not like the rest of us have forgotten that you're now officially the oldest living dwarf in the whole of Middle-earth!”

Well, that was indeed true, although Dwalin really did not want to count the years that had passed since his birth. Others could do this, he just needed to know that he was so old that he had made his way into some legends and stories that were now only whispered from one dwarfling to another.

“Then I have to thank you for reminding me, laddie,” Dwalin murmured slowly. “But is it really necessary to make such a big thing out of it?”

“Yes, of course!” The dwarf laughed, but making a face like Dwalin's question offended him. “It was Lord Gimli's own wish that the last surviving member of Thorin Oakenshield's Company may be honoured with a big feast.”

Ah, Gimli. He was sometimes such a fool. Even after so many years he still could not understand that parties for Dwalin were not as enjoyable as once, with his friends, his brother, his love...

“Master Dwalin? Are you all right?” There it was, the unending concern that Dwalin detested so much. The next question would be if he needed help, which he loathed even more.

“Yes, yes I am, I just need to get … home.” Dwalin stopped the dwarf with a wave of his hand, already turning to leave.

“Well then … I'm looking forward to seeing you at the feast!” The other dwarf said, audibly puzzled over the abrupt ending of their conversation, but Dwalin really wasn't interested anymore. He raised his hand one last time, and was glad when the hall did a turn to the left and he was out of the young dwarf's sight. Then he slowed his steps, exhaled, and tried to think up a way to avoid next week. He could not just hide in the mines like he did the years before, and Borla and Osk surely would not hide him either. 

Oh Mahal, how much he hated being the centre of attention. He was an old warrior, dammit, maybe descendant from some royal princes, but nothing more. He was part of Thorin's dumb mission to Erebor, yes, but that was now...

Dwalin tried to count the years, lost his train of thought when he stumbled over a loose stone, started again.

By Mahal's beard, seventeen _decades_ ago. Almost two centuries!

“Dwalin, how in the name of the Seven Father's did you get so _old_.” When he was younger, he had firmly believed that he would die in battle, which the ambush of the orcs and wargs at the foot of Erebor had almost managed, but no, it seemed as if Mahal himself forgot about old Dwalin. He only took all the other dwarves away, some of them far too early.

He sighed. No, he did not allow himself to think of that dreadful day.

A happy, light voice pulled Dwalin back to reality. Someone was singing a mining song that told of small shining stones between dark rock, and as Dwalin turned around another corner, now merely about fifty yards away from Borla's house, he saw a familiar shock of curly, auburn hair.

“Well lassie, how was school today?”

The dwarfling turned around, her face lighting up as she recognised him, and ran the few yards back to him. She slowed down so as not to crush into Dwalin and make him fall down, but still she hugged him tightly around the middle.

“Grandpa Dwalin!”

“Well met, Tyska,” Dwalin murmured, petting the unruly hair on the dwarfling's head, who smiled up at him. She had the same contagious laugh as her grandfather, and was according to her mother the best in arithmetic in her class.

“School was great, as always!” Tyska said happily, turning around and grasping for Dwalin's free hand. “We learnt about the Shire!”

“Oh, did you?” Tyska hopped up and down slightly, but slowed so Dwalin could follow her more easily. He smiled, watching the dwarfling being so happy about school. He still remembered how he always dreaded going to the dry lectures about history, the study of maps or literature, and how he had all abandoned it in favour of lessons with axe and sword when he counted merely thirty years.

“Yes! It's all green and hills and the people there are all small and hairy!”

“That sounds quite like a Hobbit, yeah,” Dwalin agreed, and Tyska's face lit again up with a beaming smile.

“You know a hobbit?”

“Yes, I met one, a _long_ time a go. You remember my stories about Erebor?”

Tyska nodded. Dwalin was famous for his old legends, stories and fairy tales; he did the best voices according to Borla, and especially Smaug was very convincing.

“Well, then you forgot that Bilbo Baggins was a hobbit.”

This time, Tyska's eyes got as big as saucers. “But … but I didn't think that was the truth!”

“All my stories are, young Tyska. I don't tell lies.”

“Oh.” Tyska suddenly looked at the ground, and she only spoke again when they were almost in front of their house.

“So the scary things are true, too?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, and Dwalin stopped to look at her properly, putting a gentle hand on her small shoulder.

“Yes, they are. But all those monsters, trolls, and orcs can't hurt you, because your Momma and Da will always protect you.”

Tyska nodded, looking up at Dwalin, and gave him a brave smile.

“Thanks, Grandpa Dwalin.”

And then she suddenly turned, running off towards the door of her house, and Dwalin had a hard time following her.

“Momma, I'm home!” Tyska yelled into the hallway as soon as she had opened the door, but then remained there in the entrance to hold it open for Dwalin, who nodded at her in thanks as he walked into the house, the sound of his walking stick now muffled by the wooden floor.

“Well, my dear daughter,” the voice of Borla greeted them, and the impressive dwarrodam with her neatly braided locks appeared at the door to the kitchen, a bowl and whisk in her hands. “Would you be so kind and explain to me where in the name of the Seven Fathers you have been all day?” Her glowering look made even Dwalin cringe, before he remembered that he was not the one being chastised, but young Tyska, on which the scowl had sadly not the desired effect.

“But Momma...”

“No excuses, Tyska.” Borla pointed at her daughter with the whisk, letting it bob up and down with her words. “School ended for you at midday, and that was five hours ago. Where. Have. You. Been?”

“I was with Cathor!”

Borla just stared at her daughter. Tyska finally took a step back, visibly shrinking from her mother, and for a second Dwalin thought she would hide behind his legs.

“I was playing in the mines...”

“ _IN THE MINES_?” The sudden rage of the dwarrodam startled both Dwalin and Tyska. “How often have I told you that it's _dangerous_ in the mines!?” Borla took a step towards her daughter, waving about the whisk in her hand, and it was clear that Tyska was close to crying.

“Borla,” Dwalin said gently, reaching for the dwarrodam's arm. “Nothing happened, she's fine. Being angry won't teach her better.”

For a second it seemed as if Borla wanted to yell at Dwalin too, but then she took a deep breath, and sighed.

“Tyska, come here.” Borla put the whisk into the bowl and knelt down. Tyska hesitated, but then ran into her mother's open arms. “Promise me you'll never go into the mines again without an adult,” Borla said into her daughter's hair, and Tyska nodded enthusiastically, a stray tear falling from her young eyes. Dwalin smiled.

“But that doesn't mean you get away without punishment!” Borla added when she was standing again, looking down at Tyska. “No dessert today!”

“Mommaaa...!” Tyska whined, and Dwalin giggled. Oh, he knew that tone very well.

“No arguing, or you won't get any story time from Dwalin either! And now go and wash your hands and face!” Dwalin didn't remember when he'd seen a dwarfling run so quick to the bathroom before, and shook his head. But then he was famous for his stories, and maybe that was motivation enough to behave for an evening or two.

“Dwalin?” Borla's voice pulled him from his thoughts, and Dwalin looked up at the dwarrowdam, who was again standing in the doorway to the kitchen. “You can rest for a while, dinner won't be ready for another hour. And I want to wait for Osk and Borsk's return from work anyway.”

He nodded slowly. Over all the excitement he'd forgotten how much his knees hurt after walking all the way, and he mumbled something about taking a nap before slowly taking the last few steps toward his small room, leaning heavily on his stick.

There wasn't much he called his own now and had taken with him from his old home, except a few trinkets he kept in a chest; books Balin had given him, a tobacco pouch Glóin had lent him but he'd forgotten to give back, a pipe that Bofur had carved as a present. He'd even gotten his hands on some of Ori's drawings from their journey; small things the boy had sketched, his most treasured one a happy picture of the whole company around the fire, telling stories, a smiling Thorin in the middle. He'd also stuffed some of his old weapons in there, and some letters, neatly folded and wrapped in some leather so nothing would ever touch them. He couldn't look at those letters often, but even when they were short and didn't have the words in them he craved, they still brought a lovingly missed voice back to Dwalin's mind. Another thing that was helping him to not forget his love was the little portrait he kept on his bed side table, a miniature that Ori did too, the cheeky smile and twinkling eyes captured forever on the small canvas. Dwalin was used to telling the portrait good night and good morning every day, and now, when he sat down on his bed to remove his boots for his little nap, he looked at the portrait and smiled.

“You would like Tyska too,” he told the drawing, grunting quietly as his left boot fell to the ground. “Sometimes she even reminds me of you. Clever, but has trouble knowing her boundaries.” A little giggle escaped his lips while he wiggled his freed toes and lay back on his bed, stroking his beard from root to tips. “But she can't make me miss you less. After all, there's just one true Nori!” Dwalin turned his head, looking at the portrait again. “But listen to me, a proper old dodderer now, talking to thin air … you always said that I was mad, and now I am.” 

_You've gone mad. You really want to marry me?_

Dwalin still remembered that moment as clear as day. Whenever he'd had time between the preparations for the oncoming war that would end the Third Age, he'd worked hard on two beautiful beads, a larger one with the design of his house and one smaller with his very own sigil that would tell everybody that the wearer was _his_. He felt that he needed to at least try to offer those traditional matrimony gifts, because if he had to die, he wanted to do so as a married man. And so he had presented them to Nori only a short day before the shadow of Mordor reached Erebor, and the Battle of Dale took their king. In the confusion, both of them had forgotten about the unanswered question, as the days of siege meant that they were both busy with their very own worries. But then, when the ravens came with the messages of victory, and the last Easterlings were chased off, there had been the long awaited Yes.

_You're still mad to want me like that. But you've already put up with me for more than eight decades, so I think we could do this. Yes._

It had been a marriage on the battlefield, with only some of their families attending, and their new king giving the blessing and tying the knot over their hands. Yet it was still the most beautiful moment in his life, with Nori wearing his beads and the sun shining on his beautiful red hair.

A gentle knock pulled Dwalin from his thoughts, or maybe dreams, he wasn't sure. For a moment, he'd seen Nori again standing right before him, in his plain clothes and his usual elaborate hairstyle undone, but now he was back in his room, the little drawing still smiling down at him.

“Dwalin, are you awake? Dinner is ready,” Borla's voice drifted through the wood of the door. Dwalin grunted, turning onto his side again.

“Yes, yes I'm awake. I just need five minutes,” he muttered, getting up slowly, his back aching with every movement. With a sigh, he stared at his boots and shook his head; they weren't worth the effort of putting them on again for just a few hours. Instead, he leant forward and grabbed for his warg fur slippers that were hidden somewhere under his bed.

Again, Dwalin groaned when he brought the slippers to the front, and it seemed as if he heard somebody quietly giggling. He looked at the drawing on his bedside table again, and snorted.

“Don't you dare laughing, I'm old, I'm allowed to be slow, and wanting some comfortable shoes isn't something to be ashamed of.”

However, there was no answer, so Dwalin slipped into his soft shoes and got up, grabbing his walking stick that had been leaning against the wall where he'd left it. The door swung open easily, and he was greeted in the hall by the warm scent of a roast and buttered vegetables. There were also voices drifting down from the kitchen; light and deep, young and old, chatting about the day and if they really needed to have that many vegetables on their plate. Dwalin entered the small room with a happy little smile, and the others welcomed him warmly, but it was Borsk, the older boy of Borla and Osk, who stood up and pulled back the chair for Dwalin.

“Now, what are we having?” he asked, taking his usual seat at the head of the table. For the first few weeks, he'd felt uncomfortable to take this place of honour, but Borla had reminded him that her children did not have their actual grandparents anymore, and he was the next best thing. Beside that, dwarves respected their elders, no matter if they were blood-related or not, as Borsk had just shown. The boy had even remembered to make sure his walking stick was out of the way, but still at hand if Dwalin wanted to stand up.

“Honey-glazed ham, mashed potatoes, sprouts and string beans. And for the children who can behave, there will be lemon cakes as dessert,” Borla answered, leaning forward to cut a slice of ham for Dwalin. Tyska, sitting right next to Dwalin, made a strange sound, as if she was choking on one of her sprouts, and her brother, sitting on her other side, was giggling into his spoon with mashed potatoes. Dwalin looked around, and only now noticed that there was one dwarf more than usually. Next to Borsk sat Cathor, the boy's best friend, who was somewhat of a second older brother to little Tyska, as he was quite often in their home. Dwalin did not know any details, but Cathor seemed to be one of the few young dwarves who had come without their family to the Glittering Caves; not always proper orphans, but it wasn't unheard of that dwarven parents neglected their children and then had to live with those children sneaking away in a convenient moment.

Dwalin greeted Cathor with a nod, and then remembered that he'd come to eat. He looked down at his plate, on which now piled two thick slices of ham, a very healthy portion of the potato mash and enough sprouts to feed a small army. Borla had surely outdone herself with the cooking today.

“Are we celebrating anything?” Dwalin asked suspiciously, cutting into the meat. Normally, a proper roast and such a special dessert would only be served on a holiday, but today was just another normal working day.

Borla suddenly beamed, looking proudly at her son, who was blushing in turn. “Why, yes of course. Borsk has been helping Osk in the mines for two years now, and as he'll turn forty next year, he was accepted into the Guild today and can call himself apprentice from now on.”

Dwalin grinned around a mouthful of potatoes. Becoming a proper apprentice was a big step for every dwarfling. “Congrats, lad! You'll be a great miner, just like your da and your grandpa.”

“Thanks Grandpa Dwalin,” Borsk mumbled, picking at his food. It was clear that the boy didn't like the attention, and even the friendly clap on the shoulder by his best friend didn't seem to help.

“When I'm forty, I'll be an apprentice physician!” Tyska suddenly piped up, and her older brother smiled down at her. The siblings where almost 15 years apart in age, but had a closer relationship than some other brothers and sisters Dwalin had known. Tyska, in return, grinned at her big brother, bobbing up and down on her chair.

“Do you?” Osk asked, munching on his food. “You really want to be around sick people all day?”

“Yes, because it's important that they get better!” Tyska said, impaling one of the sprouts on her plate with her little fork. “Like Grandpa Dwalin!”

“Thanks, little one.” When Dwalin broke his leg and had been on strict bed rest for almost three months, Borla and her family had been frequent visitors, and at some point, Tyska had come all by herself, often directly after school, to sit at his bed side and entertain him. She had told him stories about the things happening outside of his rooms, played small games with him, got him flowers and once (which had been a very dark hour for him) even helped him to hobble to the loo. When Dwalin thought about it, as devoted as she'd been to help him while he was sick, Tyska might actually become a good healer. Just like her grandmother.

“But sitting next to them and playing games isn't everything you'll do as a healer,” Cathor added. Dwalin had almost forgotten the boy was even there, as quiet as he'd been until now. “You'll see blood and pus and all sounds of gore-y stuff too!”

Tyska puffed out her cheeks and threw Cathor an angry glance. “Girls see a lot more blood than boys do, just that you know!”

Dwalin needed a second to realize what Tyska had meant, and then he nearly choked on a piece of meat he'd chewed.

“Tyska, how do you know–”

“Momma explained it to me when Auntie Blyth got pregnant!” the girl explained, grinning, as everybody at the table stared at her. “It's called Yanna's gift or something like that.”

“Yavanna, my sweetling,” Borla corrected, reaching over the table to pet her little girl's hair. “And I think we shouldn't talk about this at the table. Husband, have you seen my new concept designs? What do you think?”

After that, the dinner passed in relative quietness, with only Borla and Osk talking about their ideas for the newest edition of watches. Dwalin didn't listen to them much though, instead watching little Tyska. Sometimes he forgot how quickly dwarflings grew, and that the days of Tyska's innocence would pass in maybe only fifteen years. Once she'd bled, she'd be seen as a proper dwarrodam; not yet fit to marry, but old enough to court and have suitors. Time indeed flew by, he still remembered how Borla had been born, back in Erebor.

A little nudge woke Dwalin from his memories of the days in the Lonely Mountain. “Grandpa Dwalin?” Tyska whispered, leaning close to him. “Do you still want to eat those sprouts?”

He smiled, pushing his plate towards the girl so she could slide the vegetables on her own. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Borla watching them, but he didn't mind that much. He'd had enough greens in his life, should the young ones have some extra. And he wasn't that hungry anymore, either.

Most of the others seemed to be sated and satisfied by then, too; Borsk leant back in his chair and stretched his arms.

“That was a good dinner, Momma,” he said, patting his belly. “Although I'm sure there's still a corner left for some lemon cakes!”

“You're evil!” Tyska complained, but that only got her a hard look from her mother.

“If someone volunteered to help clean the table,” Borla said, staring at her daughter. “I might be merciful and allow you half a cake.”

Again, Dwalin was astonished at how quickly the girl could move when she wanted. Within minutes, all the plates had been put into the sink, and most of the bowls with the side dishes put on the kitchen counter. Only the roast itself was carried by Borla directly into the pantry, from where she brought back the small lemon cakes she'd made earlier, and which were still warm. Tyska waited patiently until her mother gave her the promised half, while Dwalin was already licking the juicy crumbles left of his first cake from his fingers. There was a flash of memory in the back of his mind, but when Dwalin tried to grasp it, the image was already lost. He shook his head; he was so old, his mind got lost within itself sometimes.

Instead of wondering what he might have remembered if he had dug deeper, he looked around the table, watching everybody eating the sweet little tarts with relish; only Borla had already stood up and started to pump water into the sink.

“Momma, do you want me to help?” Borsk asked, but the dwarrodam shook her head.

“No, it's just a few things. How about you go to the living room, maybe Dwalin will tell you a story?”

“Oh, yes please, a story, a story Grandpa Dwalin!” Tyska jumped from her chair and tugged at Dwalin's sleeve.

“Slow down, little one. How about you go to the living room and start a fire in the hearth? I'll follow, promised.” Dwalin looked at Borsk, who handed him his walking stick and inconspicuously held out his elbow so Dwalin got up easier from the chair.

“Thank you, lad.” Dwalin grabbed Borsk's arm and leaned on his stick to walk out of the kitchen, and only in the last moment he remembered something.

“Borla, lassie,” he said, turning slightly. “Could you prepare a cup of that tea you made me a few nights ago? My joints are aching so much today...”

The dwarrodam nodded and waved them off, and Borsk helped Dwalin down the little hall towards the living room, where Tyska had already piled some wood in the fireplace and was about to light a bit of tinder under it.

Even here, Dwalin had his usual spot; one of the armchairs had some extra pillows and was close to the fire, and was the most comfortable of the furniture in the room. He sat down heavily, and Borsk took his walking stick and leaned it against the mantle, where Dwalin could still reach it. Cathor had followed them into the living room and helped Tyska with the fire, while Borsk went back to the kitchen to return with a tray with some biscuits, a jug of juice and three mugs.

“Well, children, what would you like me to tell about today?” Dwalin mumbled, while the dwarflings sat down on the rug in front of the fire, Cathor nibbling at a biscuit and Tyska taking a sip of her juice.

“How about the story of the trolls?” Borsk said while pouring juice into his cup. “I love that one!”

“I've heard that one far too often now!” Cathor complained. “I want to hear more about the Battle of Dale!”

Dwalin hummed, and looked at Tyska, who hadn't expressed her favourite yet. The little girl stared at the biscuit in her hand, and then looked at Dwalin.

“Can I have something new about the Thief of Ered Luin?”

A deep sigh rumbled in Dwalin's chest. Of course the little one wanted to hear more about him. Dwalin looked at Cathor and Borsk to ask for their opinions, and both boys shrugged their shoulders.

“It's not like we don't know the other stories yet.”

“If it's actually something new, I don't mind!”

Tyska grinned so brightly that Dwalin knew that he could not tell any other story now without her feeling miserable, so he took a deep breath, trying to order his thoughts to remember something exhilarating and exciting for his dwarflings.

He needed a moment, but then Dwalin started to tell a story that he had indeed never put into words before. It was about a time long ago, when many dwarves lived in a settlement in the west of Middle-earth, in Thorin's Halls, and the living was rough and not as comfortable as now. When every winter meant the fear of starving, and summer never meant leisure time, but preparing for winter. Back then, Men lived close to the dwarven city, and were more or less reliable trade partners. Just like the shepherd that herded his sheep on the meadows that actually belonged to the dwarves, but as the dwarves had no beasts, they allowed the Man to graze his animals on the grass that was by rights theirs. In return, the Man promised to sell them the wool and meat for less money than he would usually ask. This agreement went well, until one year the shepherd got greedy and asked for twice as much money for the wool, and thrice for the meat. He claimed that the grass had been dry and thin this year, and his sheep hadn't eaten well, and as no dwarf wanted to threaten the relations with the Men, they agreed and paid the price.

However, the Thief of Ered Luin heard about this and saw with his own eyes that the shepherd had been lying; the grass was thick and lush. And so the Thief made a plan to shame the Man. One night, the Thief gave the shepherd a lot of wine that he'd spiced with a sleeping draught, and as the shepherd dreamt deeply, he opened the enclosure to free the sheep. But instead of running into the wild as he'd planned it, the sheep stood around him, looking at him with their queer eyes. And as the Thief wanted to return to his lair, the sheep suddenly followed him – right into the dwarven settlement!

At this point, Dwalin smiled at the snorting and spluttering dwarflings. He finished the story as he'd witnessed it himself – with the flock of sheep in the middle of the Great Market, bleating loudly and waking up half the city.

“And what did the Guard do?” Tyska asked between gasping for breath.

“Well, he gave them back to the shepherd, of course,” Dwalin explained, but then added with a wink: “Though some of the lambs went mysteriously missing, and the meadow close to the settlement was never given to him for his remaining sheep to graze there again.”

All three dwarflings laughed openly at that; the stupidity of the Man and the success of the Thief of Ered Luin making it a wonderful story to tell, but maybe not live through it. Dwalin's boots had smelt like sheep shit for weeks after it.

“That was a funny story, thank you Grandpa Dwalin!” Tyska exclaimed, getting up to hug Dwalin awkwardly. The boys nodded eagerly their agreement, which made the old dwarf smile proudly.

“Liked that, uh? The Thief's always worth a good laugh, ain't he?”

“Yes, of course he is,” Borsk said, putting his now empty cup back on the tray. “Although it's strange that you always call him just by his title. Did you never learn his name?”

“Oh, I did, I did. Years later, though.”

“What's his name then?” Cathor asked.

Dwalin frowned, and had to breathe deeply. Normally, he tried to keep the tales apart from the reality, of the other memories that those stories unearthed. He brushed his thick beard before he answered.

“Well, it's Nori of course.”

The dwarflings gaped and spoke all at once.

“Nori?”

“I know that name!”

“But wasn't that your husband's name?”

Of course, only Borsk was old enough to remember the stories that his actual grandfather had told him, of the husband that Dwalin had lost more than half a century ago, of the love where occupation and former enmity didn't matter in the end. It was another good story, but Dwalin didn't have the energy to tell it anymore.

“Yes, yes it was,” Dwalin agreed slowly. “And I still miss him very much.”

“Oh Grandpa Dwalin!” Suddenly, there was a dwarfling in his lap, hugging him as close as her small arms could. “Don't be sad! You'll see him again, when you go to the Halls of Mahal!”

Tyska's words shouldn't have made him smile, as going to the Halls of Mahal and dying was not something to joke about, but nevertheless he pulled the little girl closer and giggled.

“Thank you, lassie,” he mumbled, petting her hair. “I'll greet your grandpa when I see him, aye?”

“But not for a loooong time,” Tyska said with a very serious voice, leaning back to gaze at him. “Promised?”

“Promised. And now I think it's time for bed, at least for you!” He pinched her little nose, which made her squeal and climb from his legs. The girl wasn't heavy, but his bones weren't that young anymore, either.

“But I don't want to go to bed!”

“You have to get up early tomorrow,” another voice spoke, and Dwalin turned to see Osk standing in the door. “Come on, little one, go wash your face and then straight to bed.”

“Will you tuck me in?” The little girl made a few steps towards her father, then yawned and blinked, as if she was surprised by her own drowsiness.

“Of course, sweetling.” Osk picked up his daughter and rested her on his hip, before turning to the boys who'd gotten up from their places, too; Cathor was already putting the mugs back on the tray.

“Borsk, Cathor, you can stay here if you want.”

The dwarflings looked at each other, and Cathor shrugged as an answer to the unspoken question.

“We'd rather go to Borsk's room, if that is all right.”

“As long as you keep quiet so Tyska can sleep,” Osk stated, and seeing the boys nod, turned to Dwalin.

“Borla will bring you your tea soon, Dwalin. Good night!”

“Good night Grandpa Dwalin!” Tyska waved, joined by her brother; Cathor's hands were occupied with carrying the tray, but he nodded politely towards Dwalin, who waved back and wished also a good night.

And then Dwalin was alone, with just the fire still crackling quietly in the hearth. He stared into the flames and stretched his legs a little, relieving his aching joints. He loved Tyska dearly, but more often than not she forgot that he was indeed as old as the stone itself, well, at least he felt like that.

And by Mahal's beard, had he lived through so much. Dwalin had to be honest, he loved telling stories, but every time he did so he felt like his memories dragged him back into the past and made him relive it. That story about Nori's little stunt with the sheep, oh how much had he laughed himself when Nori told him how the animals had followed him, and how he'd had to climb one of the houses to escape them. Of course, Nori only parted with the whole story when they'd been together for many years, back in Erebor.

Oh, Erebor. For many years they had lived their happily, even if everything started with a heartbreaking funeral. Thorin's and the boys' death had never left the company fully, their tombs a constant place of pilgrimage. All of them had helped to create the images that stood above their stone coffins, even though handling the tools of stone carvers was new for most. Dwalin himself had chiselled Thorin's face from the rough stone, had tried to capture the fine lines around his eyes that got deeper when he frowned, but almost vanished when he laughed. He had poured every detail he could remember of his best friend into the statue, and for a time even his brother believed that he had shared more with Thorin than just a deep friendship. However, in the end, when he was done and Thorin stood in his tomb frowning at everybody that dared to enter, he had crawled into Nori's bed roll, burying his face in the soft hair and holding onto his thief until he fell asleep. Years later, Nori had told him that in those days of mourning, he'd sometimes sat outside the tomb and listened to Dwalin working, never wondering if Dwalin might even actually love him, just worrying that in his grief he might forget to sleep and eat.

_I was constantly worried in those days_ , he had said. _It's like you had lost your purpose in life, and I feared I was not enough._

“Dwalin?”

Borla had entered the room without him noticing; he blinked at her, slightly confused, but she only smiled.

“I brought you your tea,” she explained as she put down an earthen mug on the little table next to his armchair. “And your quilt, in case you get cold.”

He wanted to protest and say that right in front of the fire he wouldn't get cold, but at the same time a shiver went through him and he realised that his hands had gotten quite clammy. So he allowed Borla to put the old thing around his shoulders, and he smiled back at her.

“Thank you, lassie.”

“You're welcome, Dwalin,” she said, patting his back. “I'll be in my office in case you need me. But don't sit here too long, you'll only complain about your legs hurting tomorrow.”

He nodded, taking the mug into his hands and blowing on the tea. “I won't, I've learnt my lesson.” Dwalin sighed, thinking back to the days when he could spend whole nights sitting upright, hardly sleeping, and still feeling refreshed the next day. But no, he was old now, and old dwarves needed a feathery bed and a warm blanket. “Good night Borla.”

“Good night Dwalin.” She bent down to put a little kiss on his bearded cheek, and then she was already gone.

Dwalin sipped at his tea and pulled the quilt a little tighter, remembering how he'd come in the possession of the threadbare blanket. As far as he knew, it had been the mother of Dori, Nori and Ori who'd made the first stitches in the material, but the three brothers had soon joined her, making a tapestry of patterns and ornaments that told the story of the family Ri in many colours and materials. Kori had sadly never seen the reclaimed Erebor, but her sons brought the quilt with them as a way to remember her. The next decades, Dwalin had often seen it in Dori's house, but then the Battle of Dale came upon them and even though no one in the company was exactly young anymore, they had all fought to defend their city. Most of them survived with only minor wounds, but a slash across Dori's back festered and he died only a few weeks after the battle. He had been still there for their wedding, lying on a litter and smiling as his brother got the marriage braids, but when the raven from Minas Tirith with the sad news about Ori, Balin and Oin's fate came, he had already slipped away. It had sounded strange to them even back then, but both Dwalin and Nori had been glad that Dori had not heard the news before his death, because this way he had died believing that both his little brothers were happy, and would lead a good life even without him.

He took another sip, emptying his mug. The memory of Gimli's weary face when he gave Nori and him the Book of Mazarbul, the last thing that remained of their brothers and cousin, was etched firmly into his mind. Nori had cried then, harder than when they buried Dori, clutching the pages that Ori had scribbled his last words on. Dwalin had tried to comfort his love, but cried too, even though he'd long guessed that the reconquest of Khazad-dûm had failed, just like Nori who had never shared his older brother's optimism. After all, Balin had been his big brother, that had told him everything he knew about the world, but he had also lost a cousin that had healed many of their wounds, and losing Ori meant losing a good friend and a younger brother that he'd always looked out for.

The following years, they had made many plans to visit Khazad-dûm one day, to bring the dwarves who died there to a proper rest, but soon realised that their age had caught up to them and that it was foolish to undertake such a dangerous quest all on their own. Instead they followed Gimli's call for brave dwarves willing to establish a new settlement in the Glittering Caves, just fifteen short years after the turn of the ages. They packed their belongings, including most of Dori's things and some memorabilia that Ori had left, and with them went most of Bofur's and Bombur's family, and about a hundred other dwarves that were adventurous enough to begin a new life far away in the south. And when Nori and Dwalin had claimed a nice part of the caves as their new home, the quilt was laid over their new bed and the Book of Mazarbul put on a shelf.

They had been happy there. For twenty years, they shared their life; the little downsides of being old and frail, but also the advantages of being the heroes of their folk. Gimli had even parts of the garden dedicated to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, planting some of their favourite fruits and flowers, even trying to grow lemon trees in the warm sun of the south.

Suddenly, Dwalin felt like giggling and crying at the same time. He'd forgotten. He'd forgotten how much Nori loved lemons, how his face had looked the first time he had eaten one of the small lemon cakes that the humans in the south favoured. They had planted the lemon trees just for Nori, and the lemons that Borla had used for the cakes earlier were probably from just those trees. Dwalin sniffed at his fingers, where some of the crumbs of the cakes lingered under his nails, and the tears flowed freely. How could he forget something so important? How could his mind remember that dreadful day when he'd woken up in the morning to find Nori lying next to him, his body already cooling, but forget the small things, the smiles, the jokes and the laughter?

Dwalin sobbed into his hand. He had opened the gates to the memories he normally shoved deep into his mind. How he had watched Nori getting weaker by the day back then, always feeling cold, always wearing that damned quilt around the house. How Nori had coughed and snivelled, complaining that there was a draft in every room. How Nori had cuddled up to him at night, and Dwalin held him tightly, hoping that his beloved would get better again, but knowing deep in his heart that every night might be the last.

And then one night was the last, and Nori was laid to rest in a beautiful tomb in the deepest depth of the Thrihyrne. Dwalin did not remember much of the days after that, only how he'd stared at the ceiling and probably cradled that damn quilt like a baby would it's comfort blanket. Nori had been always enough for him, but Nori was gone.

However, instead of dying in his house of a broken heart, he had lived on. An invitation to Bofur's 250th birthday ended up on his bedside table, and somehow he actually found the strength to go there, even though his smiles during the evening were not sincere. And the following year, one of Bombur's lasses birthed her first babe, and Dwalin was invited for the feast, too. Somehow, each dwarf in their settlement tried to give him a small, simple tasks for every new day, and then one day Dwalin realised that most dwarflings called him Uncle or even Grandpa, and that he liked it.

Dwalin had become the honorary grandfather of a whole mountain. Only some years later, Gimli had told him that he had been behind most of the invitations and the first dwarflings coming to him, because he knew that Dwalin wasn't one of the dwarves that could simply exist without a purpose, even if it was just a tiny one. And Dwalin had hugged his nephew tightly, because he couldn't imagine a life without all his grandchildren anymore, and he was glad being still alive.

He took a deep breath, wiping the last tears from his cheeks. Yes, he was still alive, and Nori was still gone, and he couldn't change the latter, but he could live each day, remember his beloved and tell stories about him and their adventures. 

One of the logs in the fire cracked loudly and sent a little cloud of sparks up the chimney. The flames were slowly dying by now, and the coals were not enough to light the room properly, the darkness surrounding Dwalin like another blanket. The dim light and the exhaustion from crying so hard made Dwalin's eyelids droop, and for a moment he was reminded of his promise to not sit too long in his armchair, but then soothed himself with the thought that Borla would surely look for him before she went to bed, and that a short nap surely could not hurt. So he leaned back and closed his eyes, listening to the quietly crackling fire and trying to conjure up an image of his Nori, young and strong, so he wouldn't dream of sad things, but about one of their days in Erebor or maybe even Ered Luin, when Dwalin had to chase Nori across the city again because he stole a chicken of all things.

_Oh, my old dwarf._

Dwalin was startled by the sudden voice right next to him, blinking his eyes open. Was he imagining things again? He looked around, trying to see in the dark, and indeed, he thought he could see a figure in one corner, but then there was a sudden touch to his cheek.

_You took far too long._

He turned towards the voice, but there was nothing.

“Show yourself!” he bellowed, fearing an intruder in Borla's house. But then, there had only been one person who had called him “old dwarf” quite frequently...

“Nori?” he asked into the darkness, new tears rolling from his eyes. He was probably just going mad now.

“There, there, don't cry again.”

Dwalin turned back towards the fireplace, and then blinked slowly, but the apparition right in front of him didn't vanish.

“How … why are you here?” he asked as soon as he found his voice again.

“To fetch you, dullard,” Nori said, putting his hand on Dwalin's. There was a pull, forwards, sidewards, backwards, and Dwalin suddenly stood next to Nori.

“Come on, my old dwarf,” Nori tugged at their joined hands, grinning from ear to ear. “You let me and the others wait far too long already!”

There was light, and warmth. Dwalin held Nori's hand as tight as he could, and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> *hands out some additional tissues*


End file.
